Featherscape
patreon
Your Featherlands CYOA Journey! ~ Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2023-05-01 23:47:13 +0000 UTCThe elven hospitality had been extensive and strangely familiar to you. Your time spent there was almost entirely chaperoned by some caretaker of one kind or another. Following your training session with Tiamalla, you were taken to an apothecary to rest and heal. You're not fully sure what they gave you to ease your nerves. You certainly asked and they gave a brief explanation of the Featherland plants from which the herbs to make the medicine were collected, but so much had been going over your head as it was. To your own rationality, all of what's happened has been just a funny and very vivid dream, though the longer you spent in the odd place that was the Featherlands, the more real it all began to seem.
Tiamalla had brought you into the elven commune's library to study up on your chosen school of Evocation. She wears a clean robe and a bag slung across her back. Following your appointment with the apothecary, you too had been issued a more comfortable white robe and a fresh, clean tunic. Your boots had also been cleaned and polished. Your outfit reflects how refreshed your body and mind feels after the rest period following the magical exhibition.
"It won't be easy, and still require many days and nights of study, and even more of practice," she says to you while selecting books and tomes off of the shelves for you to research, "but with firm dedication, I believe that even you can master the mystic arts.”
“I hope so,” you say. “How good are humans usually with this kind of stuff? I can’t imagine a lot, right?”
“Don’t think like that,” Tiamalla says. “Negative perceptions are detrimental to your studies, especially at this phase.” You are taken back by this, but smile.
“Sure,” you said. Tiamalla sighs.
“While there aren’t many humans to have been known to take up magic the way we do here, it is still possible, just as much as it is for anyone else willing and able to put in the effort to learn,” Tiamalla says.
“Well, nice knowing that,” you say with a chuckle. Tiamalla collects a few more books for the collection.
"There was a human that inhabited the Fairy Woods for a while that was said to have mastered many forms of Featherland magic," Tiamalla explains. "He went on to become a royal advisor after several altercations with darker forces, or so the legend goes."
"That's cool," you say. "What happened exactly? Anything I should prepare for."
"Well, he is... no longer with us," Tiamalla says, carefully. "B-but that's all the stuff of myths and stories. Nothing that I would put too much thought into."
"If you say so," you say. You look around at the books. Many are bound in some kind of tanned hide. Strange words written in another language mark across most of the spines.
“Humans are still a rarity in the Featherlands,” Tiamalla says. “Those that have appeared, as you have, are usually only brought here for a specific purpose.” As you walk through the library, the two of you pass other elves wandering about. Some restock the shelves of books while others sit and read at large wooden tables. Most take a lingering note of your presence, staring at the human that had come to their village. You smile and wave. Some shoot you the courtesy back, but most continue to stare. Tiamalla sighs and pulls you away from their prying eyes. “Some here might welcome you openly while others might be distant or even hostile. Having a human here is an honor to most, but some might see it as an omen of bad things to come.”
“I understand,” you say. “I mean, I don’t. This is all still very strange to me, but I’ll go along with whatever you say.” Tiamalla smiles sweetly.
“You’re very trusting, Human Alex,” she says, her curly red locks and pointed ears sticking slightly out from her raised hood. “Be careful with that.”
“I trust you,” you say. “And being pretty comfortable with that is good enough for me right now.” Tiamalla’s ears start to glow at the tips. She turns swiftly away and adjusts her hood.
“Y-yes, well, I… I’m honored.”
“Until you put me through another one of those training sessions that is,” you say. You give her a playful nudge. She laughs slightly before she starts to stumble. Her eyes widen and her face turns white for a fleeting moment.
“Ahh!” Tiamalla squeaks a sharp gasp. You reach for her. You manage to catch her before her legs fully give out, sweeping one arm under her while taking the books with the other. You waver slightly, but manage to react quickly enough to grab onto both her and the books before either hit the floor. You hold Tia as her staggered breath begins to steady.
“Whoa, hey,” you say. “You alright?” Tia looks back to you before turning away just as quickly. She swallows while you help her regain her balance.
“I… um… th-thank you,” Tia says. You smile back at her. You both stand. She comes in closer to take the books. You shake your head and hold them closer.
“Why don’t I just hold onto these,” you say. “You just tell me what to carry and I’ll get it.” Tia paused. She stroked her hair back over her ears, averting her eyes.
“O-okay,” she says, still slightly winded. “If you insist.”
“Of course; least I can do, right?” you say. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine, I’ve always been kind of… bad on my feet, I should say,” Tiamalla says with a delicate laugh, like the ring of a bell.
“Well, I can’t catch you if you get too far,” you reply jokingly. Tiamalla shoots you a puzzled look. For a moment, you contemplate why it was you felt the need to say that. Likely the most human thing that Tiamalla has done so far has been giving you a look that you’re sure you would have gotten from anyone back home, if you could remember any of them.
“Right, well, there’s still a few tomes I’d like you to take a look at,” Tia says. She continues to lead you through the library, studying the shelves and selecting more books to add to the pile. You struggle to hold it up, but stay firmly reliable to do so.
“Sure is a lot of reading,” you comment. “I’m not sure how quickly you all read here, but this may take me some time.”
“As it should,” Tiamalla says. “I’d be wary of your sincerity if this did not.” You continue to notice stares being shot in your direction. After what Tia said about how humans are perceived in the Featherlands, you’re not sure exactly how to take the leering looks. Were they hostile? Flattering? Intrigued? It was hard to say, so for the moment, you decide to simply not make your awareness of them too aggressively obvious.
“What even is all this, if you don’t mind me asking,” you say.
“Please ask,” Tiamalla says. “That’s what I’m here for. To teach. So if you have questions, feel free to ask any.”
“Right, so what even is all this?” you ask. Tia glances over the stack of books in your arms.
“Some of them are textbooks on basic magical principles,” she says. “Others are specifically about the school of Evocation. More are about the history and topography of the Featherlands itself, since all this must be new to you.”
“You’re not wrong,” you say. “Anything here about getting me back home?” Tiamalla pauses. She thinks for a bit and shakes her head.
“Perhaps somewhere, but I would not be able to say where,” she says. “But to repay your kindness and cooperation, I will make it my personal mission to research how to get you back to your world, by any means at all.” You grin and breathe a heavy sigh.
“Thanks, because… you know, I really want to help you all with… whatever it is I can, but…”
“Your first priority is getting home,” Tiamalla says. Her face turns somber as she nods. “I understand. I’m sure anyone would be the same in your position, so no one can blame you.” Her head hangs low as she turns away from you, returning to scouring the bookshelves.
“If only just to have a way to get back,” you say. “Doesn’t mean that I won’t come back. I just want to know that I’m not stuck here forever.”
“You need not explain your reasoning to me,” Tiamalla said. She stopped herself briefly and shook her head. “I’m afraid that may have come out too off-putting. What I mean is that your reasons are valid and are under no scrutiny. You have my word.”
“Thank you,” you say. “You guys have really made all this much more easy to deal with, you know? I was so scared, but, I don’t know, you’ve helped me feel comfortable with this, even if it is some coma dream.”
“I assure you, it isn’t, but I suppose that’s one for the philosophers to ponder,” Tiamalla says cheekily.
“The tickling is still an adjustment, but I can’t say that I hate it,” you say. “It’s just something that I have to get used to, I guess.”
“When it’s handled with care and love and restraint, that is the common ground of the Featherlands,” Tiamalla says. “Obviously, there’s more to it than that, but be aware that many in the Featherlands weaponize tickling to extremes unfamiliar to your world. It’s important for you to remember that not everything is as good as it seems.”
“Logic that I am all too familiar with back home,” you say. “But there, worse things than some bad tickling happen all the time. I’m sorry if anything I say comes off as insensitive.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Tia says. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay.”
“You’re sweet to do all this, Tia,” you say. She smiles back at you before pulling herself back to the books once again. “So what else are we getting?”
“Not much more,” Tiamalla says. “Sorry for lumping all of this on you at once.”
“It’s no problem, so long as you know that I won’t get through all this today,” you say.
“Of course,” Tiamalla says. You take a quick look around at all the others in the library looking your way before you resume pretending not to notice.
“So, should I know anyone else’s names?” you ask. “I don’t want to be a total stranger here.”
“I suppose,” Tia says. “Well, you met the apothecary.”
“Briefly,” you say, still kind of foggy about that whole exchange.
“The elf behind you, over by the hand cart,” Tia says, keeping her eyes away from the spot as she talks, “her name is Raine Skyhorn. She’s the daughter of an esteemed professor and a writer. The one reading by the window is Dohnigha Grimlocke, we studied together at the Hoggrith Temples.”
“That’s cool,” you say. “Where’s that?”
“Oh, far, far north of here,” Tiamalla says. “It is mountainous, but not like the Purain Mountains that you might have seen while here. These are very far away.”
“I see.”
“I trust you’ll learn more about people once you get to know them,” Tiamalla says. “It should not be my business to divulge so much about others from afar.”
Tiamalla finishes her search and points you to a table by another window, substantially away from all of the other peering eyes. You set the books down and wipe at your forehead.
“We’re ready?” you ask.
“Start with this,” she says. “Apologies if it’s a bit much, but you’ll pick it up quickly. I know it.”
“Well, I trust you, so I’ll do whatever you say,” you say with a smile. Tiamalla returns the gesture.
“Right, well, take breaks when you need them,” Tia says. She pulls the bag around from behind her back and sits it on the table next to you. “Here, I had picked you fresh this morning some snowberries, jibbles, and yaras fruit, in case you get hungry.”
“You’re not staying with me?”
“I would, but the elders want me to keep checking in with your progress, as the ‘human liaison’.”
“Is that what I’ve made you?”
“I am more than honored that you have chosen me for the position,” Tiamalla says, “so do not feel as if I am under any extraneous obligation. They just want to make sure that you are comfortable and happy and advancing your progress.”
“Right, and these elders are?”
“Just, wise, and authoritative voices within the commune,” Tiamalla says. “Mostly they stay out of smaller issues, but they offer sage advice on how to proceed during issues of conflict, scarcity, and inter-regional relations.”
“And they’re interested… in me?”
“They must know all that happens here,” Tiamalla says. “Withholding information from the elders is strictly forbidden. As soon as the scouts got word of your arrival, they knew.” Tiamalla catches onto your blank stare. She smiles. “Scouts work with the elders to report information.”
“Ah, we call those ‘snitches’ where I come from,” you say, giving Tia a small smirk and a wink.
“Oh, snitches are something totally different here,” she says. “Ragged creatures that roam the swamps and marshlands. Don’t want to be caught with a snitch alone.”
“Good to know,” you say.
“Right, so I should go and inform them of your progress,” Tia says. “Eri and Dynacia also wanted to meet with me about matters beyond the commune.”
“Like what?”
“Worry not about it, human Alex,” Tia says. “Just focus on your studies. I will return before nightfall to retrieve you for supper.”
“Sounds good then,” you say. You take a seat and pull the first book in the stack closer to you. “I will be able to read these, right?” Tiamalla pauses. She thinks for a moment, as if blind-sighted by the question. She nervously scratches at the side of her nose.
“O-oh, right…” she says. “Sorry, um, maybe… some of it may be in human, but…” You laugh and wave her off.
“It’s fine, I’ll just skip the parts that aren’t,” you say. “I'll go off context clues and all that.”
“I-I’m afraid that I do not understand, but I trust your confidence,” Tia says. “I promise, we’ll go over it all together another time. Perhaps tonight after supper.”
“Sounds good,” you say again. “Go do what you need to do.”
“Right,” Tia says. “I… I take my leave then.” The elf girl smiles and turns swiftly to leave. You watch her make her way out. Occasionally, she turns to look back at you, only to dart her head back into position once meeting your eye. You watch her out of the corner of yours up until the moment she rushes through the wooden branching arches leading into the library. Alone, you take another look around. Tia had found a relatively solitary place for you to study, but you can still feel the stares of the elven community bearing down on you from afar. You sigh and shake your head. You look back down to the book in front of you.
“Right, here we go,” you say on a heavy exhale.
Going through the text of the first book, you notice the elvish language written across every page. Most pages are exclusively written in the language that you do not understand and had only just heard for the first time the day before. Still, the knowledge laid out before you appears vast and engaging, as if you feel yourself missing out on important information as it stares back in your face. With how much that Tiamalla pulled out for you to read, it is a relief that most of the pages are beyond your ability to do so, and as such will have to go back through everything again with Tiamalla later. The least you can do is find the sections written in a language that you understand and commit yourself to learning as much as you can on your own.
The book detailing more about the Featherlands, made transparent by the maps of the regions drawn out in ways that you can understand, is comprehensible in the most basic of terms. What is written out for you to grasp is the overall layout of the Featherlands. You stare at the maps in length, dwarfed by your own underestimation of the general scale. The places you had seen, the Giggling Groves and the Elven Commune and the field in which you found yourself, is little more than a minor ink splotch on the Featherlands map. Regions are laid out, listing off the general biodiversity and the varying tribes that reside within them. The pages are worn and fragile. Marks had been made across the different maps much younger than the book itself, explaining apparent updates and notes about the regional tribes. Ultimately, you stare down at these maps in complete awe. If the Featherlands is truly the scale at which you see, with so much detailed information to be gathered, you cannot comprehend how your mind could fabricate it all, even in a dream. Your attachment to that theory has been fleeting since you arrived, but for the first time, you feel as if you may have abandoned it completely.
You scan through the Featherlands book as much as you can, reading all that you can understand. You pick over sections largely about human activity. You look for anything about how to get back to your world, about how Featherlanders may get there or how humans may get back. You find nothing useful, though you do see several human profiles sketched into the pages next to strange titles. Next to one, the words ‘Featherland Warrior’ are written out, with ‘warrior’ having been obviously marked over with red scratches.
“Hm,” you mutter as you read. You turn the page again. You glance over a lineage of various rulers across the ages. Most were odd figures with some humanoid characteristics, but who mostly looked like different races of Featherlander. You do find one in the bunch that has a predominantly human look to her; a pretty young girl in glasses. Next to it, where a name and title would have been listed, is nothing but a bunch of violent black scratch marks. Below her image, scrawled angrily in red ink, is the word ‘traitor’. “Yikes.” Another thing to note for later.
The rest of the book is mostly legible through pictures alone. It depicts different creatures, plant life, and even gives a breakdown of the different races with their cultures, regions, and general anatomy. You find elves on a page with a girl who looks remarkably similar to Tiamalla.
‘While elves do differ significantly from breed to breed, an elf can be identified by the shape of their ears, communal prosperity, and an unusually high sensory reception. Elves of all breeds and cultures consider themselves to be as one with the environment and land in which they inhabit. Their nervous structure enables them to be remarkably aware of their surroundings, able to feel disturbances such as storms and tremors long before any other race or creature. As such, their sensory reception is severely heightened. While this does prove useful for general survival, they are often more easily detained by tickling and will succumb to its influence much quicker than other races or creatures.’
“Interesting,” you say, with a smirk. You continue reading.
‘To achieve this connection with the environment, most of the elf’s most delicate sensory reception is located in the soles of their feet, with the palms of their hands being almost equally matched in that regard. Still, their primary tickle spots can be listed as above average to extreme, in most cases, which is why elves have cultivated their prosperity through communal living, as solitary elves are more likely to fall victim to the Featherland’s more primal forces. They thrive on surrounding themselves in vast groups for protection. These groups can spread, and accommodate themselves, to most of the Featherland’s hospitable environments.’
You turn the page and again find yourself looking for anything about humans, if only to not feel like such an outsider. You do come across another general anatomy sketch of both male and female humans with a list of most common tickle spots.
‘Human tickle spots range most variably across the body. Sensitivity of certain parts can vary greatly from human to human, which makes them more complex and unpredictable when it comes to their ticklish reception. Some humans have been known to outlast some of the Featherland’s most aggressive creatures and ticklish trials, but most are just as susceptible as anyone else.’
“Accurate,” you mutter to yourself. You continue to look for anything regarding the passage between your world and the Featherlands to still find nothing. You skim the rest of the text and what of it you can actually read before getting to the end of the book. After, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. You close the book, set it to the side, and reach for the next.
The next is a more general magic textbook. From section to section, you can see that it covers most of the common schools that Tiamalla had listed and displayed for you. You pass over them with quick glances for anything that could be written in your language before getting to the section titled ‘Evocation’. You study it closely. Your eyes search over the written text, even across the words and characters you don’t recognize. When you do get to words that you can read, you sound them out carefully, rereading each line several times.
“Tap into the vibrations of nature… channel it inside and… surrender to it ‘ what?” Your brow furrows. It all sounds like pointless platitudes, quotes that go nowhere and do nothing. But you force yourself to remember that you’re in a different world, one with magic and laws beyond your understanding. You steady yourself and focus. “‘Tap into the vibrations of nature, harness it inside yourself, channel it through, and surrender to it. Give into it. Trust the world around you.’ Yeah, I guess I’m starting to.”
You turn the page. The following sections relay images and brief descriptions written in your language depicting different channelings of Evocation. On it, you see the flames that Tiamalla had used on you.
‘Feather Flame is a potent, simple spell that allows the user to summon or extinguish a flame, with all the properties of flame, that neither burns nor scars, but elicits a powerful tickling sensation. This flame can spread and consume most matter and must be properly addressed and controlled in the event of mass spread.’
The next section is designated with a small snowflake symbol, drawn out next to a larger image and description of another type of Evocation.
‘Still Frost can be utilized most effectively for temporary binding of materials. Scholars have since found great functionality in using Still Frost defensively, rendering targets immobile for an amount of time specific to both environment and the skill of the user. While Still Frost behaves like icy wind, the encapsulation is said to be painless, yet still stronger than most other forces to be found across the Featherlands.’
The following section is given the symbol of what appears to be a lightning bolt.
‘A potent variation of Evocation spells is the Manic Spark. Activating this spell summons a powerful current that can travel through air or any organic or compatible material. The length and power of the spark is dependent on the user’s mastery. Contact with the spark is said to allow the spark to pass through the contacted target, branching and stimulating many of the target’s most sensitive nerves along the way. The sensation is written to be a sudden shock of tickling, akin to prolonged tickling exposure unleashed in a short burst.’
“Nice,” you say, reading over to the next spell down the page.
‘Molding Tide is a unique spell, one that can only be mastered through extensive studying and tremendous concentration. Through it, the user creates a supply of water. The user may also use this spell to move, shape, and even alter the flow of the created water. The spell also allows the user to create a sensory extension of their own touch to whatever may be encased in the water. Several instances of targets being submerged have reported being able to feel the user’s touch from within the water. The user may be able to create as many of these sensations as can be achieved through concentration.’
Before reading more, a large hand flips the book closed in front of you. You had not sensed that anyone had approached you and yet, as you look up, you see two new figures staring down at you. One has a slender, yet slightly muscular frame. White hair ruffles around the peaks of his ears. His eyes, deep and sparkling, narrow down at your position.
“So, you’re the human I keep hearing about?” the elf boy says. You swallow nervously. You trace the hand that closed the book to the other figure, a much larger individual; strong, yet not without a hint of feminine charm. She has much more tanned skin and woven hair that slinks down to her waist. She silently glares at you as the two await an answer.
“I… I guess so,” you say quietly. “Unless there’s someone else here…” The thickly built woman sweeps your books off of the table and onto the floor. Several pages scatter. Others in the library look over to see the sudden commotion, only to warily keep their distance.
“How rude of me then to not give you a formal introduction,” the boy says. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
“I, uh, I’m supposed to wait here though,” you say. “I have reading to do.”
“Yeah, to become just another human that comes in, causes problems, and leaves,” he replies. He glares down at you, his eyes brightly shimmering. “I think you’ll want to come see what I have to show you.” You start to speak again, but see the other one standing by your side. You almost expect someone else to step in, to understand that you’re the odd one out and come to help. But everyone around you either stares from a distance or pretends not to notice. You pause and slowly rise.
“Alright, but…”
“No ‘buts’,” the boy says. “Come.” Before you can move, the other places her hand on the back of your neck. While she stands, she towers over both of you. She forces you along, following the boy elf out of the library. You take note of his ornate dress, how his cape seems to shine in the rays of sunlight that peek through the walls and windows. The girl pushing you forward is clad in red leather that appears withered by battle, complete with tears and slash marks. Only when the three of you are out of the library do you speak up again.
“Where… are we going?” you ask.
“Not your concern, human,” the boy says. “But you should know that you aren’t as welcome here as you might think.”
“What do you mean?” you ask. “Who even are you?”
“Oran,” he says. “Phoenix Oran, of the Old Forest tribe.”
“Okay,” you say. “And her?” Neither say anything for a moment.
“Answer it,” Oran says.
“Gorana Pheron,” she says, after a heavy sigh.
“A Fealth, not that you would know, human,” Oran says. The two lead you down a series of hallways, each descending deeper and deeper beneath the root system atop which the elven commune sits. Beneath the surface, the walls are mostly padded dirt. Lanterns light the corridors and stairwells. Roots made for support arches are placed gradually through the hallways. The air smells of Earth, with a sweetness to it that pours in from the open pathways leading to the surface. Once you reach a dark, shallow alcove, Oran points to it. “Here.” Pheron shoves you into the darkness. You stumble and hit the ground, staining your white robe with splotches of mud and dirt. You turn to face the two standing over you.
“H-hey!” you shout. “Why? What did I do?”
“You’re human,” Pheron says sharply. “You’re unwanted.”
“Says who?” you ask.
“No human should be allowed to sully Featherland ground with their filth,” Oran says. “That is what our parents have always said. And now one thinks it’s to be welcomed into our home?”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I didn’t choose to come here,” you say. “I ended up here and I’m trying to get back home.”
“What’s stopping you, human?”
“I don’t know how,” you explain forcefully, irritation sharpening your tone. “If you know how, please tell me and I’ll be on my way, but if you don’t then I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Then leave,” Oran says. “You shouldn’t be here anyway, but why do you have to dirty our home with your primal ways?” You push yourself to your feet and dust yourself off.
“Okay, I don’t know what’s been done here before, or what even I did to you personally, but you’re going to want to get out of my way,” you say, standing firmly in place. Oran chuckles. He runs his fingers through his glimmering white hair, tossing it back.
“Am I to assume that you won’t be leaving on your own then?” he asks. "Been getting too friendly with our kind?"
“No,” you say. “Tiamalla has been very nice and welcoming, the most friendly person I’ve met here so far. She says there’s nothing wrong with me being here.”
“Ah yes, I’ve seen you following that little mouse around,” Oran says. “She too comes from a tainted lineage. It’s disgusting how she’s been able to manipulate the elders into trusting her.”
“Alright, get out of my way,” you say. You start to push yourself through only to be met with Pheron’s strong hand pushing you back. “H-hey!”
“Humans should be more respectful,” Pheron says.
“Their misplaced arrogance can be cute, but is mostly just annoying,” Oran says. Before you can press forward again, a thin root shoots out through the dirt walls. It latches itself onto your boot. You nearly trip forward, but catch yourself, looking back to examine.
“Wha-” you say before being cut off quickly by another root emerging, this one latching onto your opposite wrist. Both roots are thin and nimble, but oddly sturdy, holding on tightly to your wrist and ankle. Both retract into the wall, pulling your arm and leg in opposite directions. You gasp. You balance on one leg just barely well enough to hold yourself up. In trying to assess the sudden situation, you look back to the pair to see Oran holding up a small, glowing orb.
“Look at it, so frightened,” Oran says. “You’d almost think that they’ve never seen a flora conduct before.” Oran and Pheron laugh, watching you struggle in place.
“Okay, this really isn’t funny,” you say, still trying to make sense of it all. You reach across your body with your free hand to try and rip the root out of the dirt. Tugging on it further establishes the binding root to be unmoving, as if trying to pull a boulder through the wall. Oran twirls the orb in his hand. It glows a bright shade of green, basking his face with an underlit illumination.
“So weak,” he says. “And to think that there are those who believe humans are saviors. As far as I’m concerned, a human’s only purpose here is to be ticklish nourishment for the creatures that roam the wild.”
“But for now, this will have to do,” Pheron adds, smirking and crossing her arms.
“What do you mean?” you ask. Your eyes widen with panic. Another root shoots out through the dirt, this time above you. It latches onto your other wrist, pulling it back in a way that leaves your entire upper body splayed and vulnerable.
“It’s my hope that I can simply keep you down here, where you’ll be, at the very least, not causing problems like you humans like to do here,” Oran says, “and at most, providing ample entertainment for those that cross your path.” The binding roots help you balance one foot on the ground while the other remains pulled up toward the wall. You waver slightly and shoot them both an angry glare.
“I didn’t do anything to either of you,” you say. “And I’m not here to cause problems, I just want to go home.”
“You going home would be best, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon,” Oran says with a grin. “At least we can make your time here more appropriate for a human’s fate.”
Before Oran can elaborate, more roots begin emerging from the dirt around you. They slither slowly, inching toward you like curious serpents. More come out where the bind roots protrude. They coast down the guiding branch toward your skin, coming closer and closer. You dart your head toward the root that touches against your arm from one holding your wrist. It glides down your limb slowly, carefully inching closer. The texture of the root is unfamiliar, one that feels as if the entire thing is covered in soft, scratchy hairs. Even as it courses across your forearm, you can’t help but giggle as it leaves ticklish sensations where it touches.
“Whhahat’s… whahat’s happening?” you ask. Oran chuckles.
“You humans really don’t know the Featherlands at all, do you?” he asks. “Allow me to give you a former introduction, courtesy of the Phoenix family.” The two stand back and watch you struggle and squirm against the roots holding you in place, stretched out and helpless. The new root climbs across your arm toward your shoulder. It scratches slightly in its path, leaving you feeling ticklish in places you don’t expect.
“Stahahp… mmmheheehee… gehehet them away…” you say, trying to fight back the mild laughter. The two standing before you merely watch, wearing wide, amused grins. You struggle more and more, surprised by the durability of the roots holding you. The botanical tendrils slither closer still. The closest one wiggles farther up your arm as another touches down against your other. It explores into your robe sleeve, circling around to the underside of your arm.
“I’m sure you’ll find Featherland hospitality most humorous,” Oran says. You gnash your teeth. The root touches against more and more sensitive areas the high it gets up your arm. Only when it finally reaches your helpless armpit does it stop pushing forward. It seems to examine the area like a curious creature. As the other root begins traversing your other arm, the one inside your robe starts a soft prodding of your underarm region.
“Neeeehhehehee…” you squeal and jump a little in place. The touch of the natural tentacle leaves soft, ticklish strokes across your, most notably as it starts swiping against your trembling pit. You wince and fight back the giggles for as long as you can, but you can only hold on for so long before you begin feeling the full effects of the animated Featherland plantlife. “Nahaahahaooo… Staahahahap….”
“You would deny a traditional Featherland greeting, human?” Oran asks. He shakes his head, his orb glowing brighter in his hands. “So ungrateful.” The other root rushes down to take its place within your sleeve. While the other begins an assault of consistent, ticklish scribbling, it burrows into your clothes against your skin. It quickly locates your other squirming pit, fully available to it by the strength of the roots holding your arms apart. You shake your head. You giggles and shiver. You pull harder and harder at the roots holding you in place, but can do nothing but break into laughter as more tickles explode through your other plush, underarm dip.
“Gaaaahhhhhheheheheheheeehaha! Leheheheeet me gooooaahahahahaaa!” you let out bursts of wailing laughter. Your voice booms from your lips, but is effectively dampened by the dirt making up the tunnels around you. You squirm more. You pull harder still, your body flying into a sudden frenzy of trying to break from your binds. The tickles compound more and more by the second. The roots seem to find the most ticklish spots in both of your pits. They scribble their tips, coated with fine hairs, against your skin, brushing and digging into your pits like fingers. Oran and Pheron watch and chuckle.
“Human will never get out,” Pheron says. She smirks, her strong arms crossed in front of her chest.
“Not at all,” Oran replies. “Not until it agrees to leave and never come back. You hear that, human?” The vines poke and scribble at you with a careful, methodical touch. As if driven by the ticklish reactions felt within the spots themselves, they pick up their scribbling assaults. They scratch with rapid repetition, plucking over your ticklish pits with a festering desire for your hysteria. They moved with only the single purpose to inflict tickles. Drawn by the energy of your hysteria, the tendrils dig into and brush across your pits harder and harder, encouraged by your heightening reactions.
“Neeeeaaaahahahahaha!!! Ohhh gahahahahad, geheheet out!!!” Both roots work diligently in exploring their lightly bristled tips all over your stretched pits. They prod deep within. They delicately brush across the faintest amount of skin, igniting all of the ticklish nerves within. They scratch and swipe insistently, never seeming to tire or restrain themselves in the slightest. Your giggles become deep fits of laughter. You twist and pull in place. You feel your body being steadily overtaken by tickles, not unlike all of the other instances you’ve had in the Featherlands being on the receiving end of a devious tickle attack.
“It does put on a good show,” Oran says, his eyes feasting on your manic reactions. “But it can still be better.” He gently strokes the orb in his hand. More roots begin wiggling their way out of the surrounding dirt. Several poke out from around the sturdier branch latched onto your raised ankle. You only notice when they make contact with your skin that they too slowly creep up your leg like the others had done to your arms. You can hardly see beyond your pinched, teary eyes, the roots burning against your pits continuing their vicious scribbling. You yelp and hop, trying to pull away from the tendrils and hardly noticing when they stop at the edge of your boot.
“Naaahhahahahaooo!!! Gaaahhhhahahah I’m sahahaharry!!” you yell with laughter. “Jahahast let me go! I waahahahahaan’t tell!!” The pair say nothing, at least nothing that you can hear over your own laughter. You shake your head as your body thrashes in place. No matter how you move, you cannot shake the roots already pressed against your delicate skin, scribbling away. Sweat drips down your bare body. The natural tendrils at the hem of your boot start to curl over and slither inside.
“Perhaps you’ll serve as a cautionary example for all humans and what should happen to them all if they decide to stick around,” Oran says, giving a hearty chuckle as he watches. The roots pouring into your boot push their way to the bottom. Their abrasive texture brushes along your calf and ankle, further demonstrating tickles in areas in which you feel you’ve never been ticklish before. You squeal and continue to pull, your mind trapped with the tickles as much as your body is. The light, scratchy tips course their way down to your bare foot.
“Naaahahahahahaooooooo!!! Pleeaahhahasseee!! Just staahhahahap!!” you plead. You know neither have any interest in stopping now. You can only hope that they intend to humiliate you and nothing more, but as you seem to have few to no available options through which to escape, surrendered to being completely at their mercy, you’re not so sure. A sudden jolt of tickles surges through your body as the roots slither around the edges of your foot. The tips begin to examine your sole with gentle brushing strokes. This alone is enough to peak your laughter. “NAAAAHHHAHHAHHAHAHAAAA!!!”
“Humans cannot withstand the true forces of the Featherlands,” Oran adds. “You are all too weak and fragile. Your best purpose here is to provide sustenance for our wildlife with your ticklish energy.”
“And entertainment,” adds Pheron. Oran chuckles.
“Very true,” he says. You can’t tell how many of the ticklish tendrils slipped inside your boot, but you know it was certainly more than two. At least two alone stroke up and down your trapped, delicate sole, possibly even three. Another had crossed over the top of your foot, nestled restlessly in between your toes. Its squirming motions allow the coarse, hairy stem of its body to weave maddening tickles throughout your digits with the smallest of strokes. In an instant, your foot seems to explode with tickles. Much like the ones still ravishing both of your armpits, these two appear to track out your most ticklish zones and brush them in a way that perfectly elicits the most ticklish response.
“GAAAAAHHHAHAHAHHAHAAA!!! MAHAHHAHAAKE THEM STAHAHAHAHAP!!!” you say. You hate feeling so helpless, especially against those who had already made you look so foolish merely minutes before. You stand there, wavering uselessly on one leg, while you shriek and flail as tickles flood in from both ends of your body. The tips of the roots continue to brush and scribble faster against your skin. They scratch with the mobile dexterity of a squiggling worm, yet their tips attack your spots like fingers hungry for your ticklish laughter. They map out your spots and feast on the sensitive nerves within, reducing your composure to nothing more than squealing laughter.
“Pathetic,” Oran comments. “And here I was hoping that you would stand up to us, do something that would prove me wrong about humans. But here you are, demonstrating what makes them all so feeble.” Your body burns with the tickles that gush through it. Your chest aches, your stomach and jaw grow sore with laughter. Tears and sweat trickle down your face. Your body fights weakly against the roots holding it in place before it begins to surrender completely to your fate.
“I’M SAAHAHAHHAHAARRY!!! LEHEHEHEHET ME OUT!!! NNNEEEAAHAHAHAHAA!!!!” you howl. Your voice breaks. Your arms and legs tremble. You continue to move and squirm, yet no matter where you try to go, the tickles persist. The inescapable quality to it weighs on your mind. It acts as a tease for the tickles, a potency agent to multiply their effects. In your boot, the roots brush their feathery, bristled tips up and down your sole, running the length of your arch from your heel to the base of your toes. One keeps licking at your toes themselves, painting each innocent digit with several coatings of mind-melting tickles.
“I could watch this all day, couldn’t you?” Oran asks. Pheron smirks and nods.
“Humans should all get this,” Pheron says.
“That’s the idea,” Oran says. He smiles and lets out a heavy sigh. “Ah, what a world. Let’s show this one what that would be like.” Oran runs his fingers across the orb again. It glows once more. After a moment, the tendril roots stop scratching at your skin. They fall still, yet remain in contact. With the tickles coming to a stop, you heave painfully. You suck down deep, groaning breaths as you continue to hang, mostly suspended in the alcove. You struggle to catch your breath, sweat falling from your head onto the ground beneath your slumped posture. You grumble and look up. Your eyes narrow angrily, yet not without a welling fatigue.
“L… huff… le… let me… go…” you command. Oran chuckles again.
“I could, but where’s the lesson in that?” he says. “That your kind can order mine around? No, no, you need to learn the hierarchy here, human. More importantly, your place within it. It’s very simple, even a human can understand… it’s at the bottom. No one in the Featherlands is beneath your kind. Wretched Scrawls are above your kind here. And you’ll be released once you finally understand that. Until then, enjoy fertilizing our gardens.”
From the roots that are still in contact with your pits, sole, and toes, you feel a slight tingling as the tips begin to break open. They break and spread into many tiny branches each, scouring around the areas and covering the entirety of your skin. The smaller roots expand outward against the spots, latching onto the regions as if burying into the skin itself. As the roots spread, leaving not a single spot free from their touch, the sensations set in again, returning with explosive multitudes of tickles.
“NaaaaaaAAAAHHHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!! OH GAHAHAHHA!!! WHAHHAAHT’S HAHAHAHAHPPENING?!?” you shout. Your muscles contract, your body straightening before pulling once more at the botanical binds. Within seconds, each root fully engulfs your pits and sole as a frail root system, one that you still cannot shake no matter how much you squirm. Each tiny root fractal presents its own surging, ticklish force. As if hundreds of small fingers begin scratching at the very nerves themselves across your sole, toes, and armpits, a massive wave of tickles overcomes your senses. You hop and thrash once more, returning to a state of strained breathing and total hysterical.
“Heh heh, see?” Oran says. “Don’t think that you’re of any higher value here, human. But I will admit, it is a pleasure watching you endure our ‘welcoming’.” The tickles encompass the entire surface of your sole and pits. They seem to attack every nerve over and over again. The branching root system covers your sole and weaves all through your toes. It reaches ticklish spots that you know you’ve never been tickled before. The root systems up at your pits begin spreading down to your ribs. Every inch they cover, they leave basking in an impossible assault of tickles. You throw your head back, screaming with laughter. Tears fall down your blushing cheeks, sweat being flung off in every direction each time you shake your head.
“GAAAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAAA!!! STAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAPPP!!” you bellow deep, frantic laughter. Beyond your position, more roots begin emerging from the dirt walls. They inch closer to you curiously, charged by the ample amount of ticklish energy which you exude. They surround you from all angles, coming closer and closer to your skin. More begin rising from the ground beneath you, targeting your other foot. All the while, the root systems already latched onto you continue to spread and feast on your hysteria.
“Perhaps we silence the human, so no one will find them,” Pheron says. Oran cocks his head to the side. He smirks.
“Maybe,” he says. “When we leave this one to its fate. Shield them off and, in time, everyone will forget that there was even a human here at all.” The roots inch closer. The systems continue to branch out and swallow your nerves, leaving each in a perpetual state of ticklish mayhem. You scream with laughter. You cry and twist and pull in place. Anger sets into desperation, and desperation into fear. Within seconds of just the three roots alone, you are left unable to process most thoughts or emotions, only the tickles that permeate your person.
“STAAAHAHAHHAHAHHAAPPP!!! PLEEAAAHHAHAHASE!!!” you cry, letting out one massive, wailing shout. The roots do not stop. Oran and Pheron merely stand back and watch you slink deeper and deeper into absolute ticklish madness. More roots slowly approach from all angles, close to making contact. Their tips open up and release their own hungry sets of root systems, waiting to latch onto your skin and ingest your ticklish nerves.
Yet in your blinding whirlwind of ticklish mania, your mind shoots back to the book. Pictures of the words flash before you. You recall the symbols and the Evocation spells associated with each. You don’t know much, but with little time and mental fortitude left to react, you know you must try something.
Feather Flame
Still Frost
Manic Spark
Molding Tide
The options stand before you, while you are still able to comprehend anything beyond the tickles devouring your senses. You try to pull your focus to one spell over the others and to formulate the means of using it. You have to act fast with determination and imagination.
Act fast! What do you do?
